


Grief has a Gravity

by MaurianasRavenholdt



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Determined, Mild Injuries, Nightwing 92
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaurianasRavenholdt/pseuds/MaurianasRavenholdt
Summary: Roland Desmond is systematically taking everything from Dick. Homeless and empty, his hopelessness threatens to overtake him. Set During the Nightwing 90-93 run.
Kudos: 19





	Grief has a Gravity

All Dick wanted was _home_. John Law’s stories, His neighbors’ gentle smiles. The smell of his father’s leather jacket, the faces of his parents forever captured on the “Flying Graysons” poster hung proudly by the front door. But it was all gone. Taken. Razed for the singular crime of being associated with him. Like a perverted king Midas, he was cursed - not with a touch of gold, but one of death and destruction. He was _poison_

His eyes blurred with tears behind his mask, and he took a deep, trembling breath. Rain was coming, he smelled it in the air. He could only hope the weather held. Just for a little while. Long enough that he could lie down somewhere in secret and let his aching muscles rest. Sleep would be too much to ask. 

Finally, too spent to keep searching for the best place to lay his head, he found a sturdy-enough fire escape landing attached to a largely empty, run-down apartment building. For a moment, he contemplated breaking into an unoccupied unit and taking respite there, but ultimately decided against it. It was enough of a risk sleeping outside. Going in could mean death for the people in _this_ building, too. If Roland Desmond found him. And Blockbuster seemed to be everywhere, these days. Suffocating him.

There were some discarded newspapers trapped in the corner where the bars of the railing met the steel grates of the floor. Carefully, with numb hands, he pressed them flat against the landing. Then, before the wind could sweep them up, he laid down on top, shivering against the poorly guarded metal. 

Rest was _supposed_ to do him good. His feet ached and throbbed, his ribs felt like they were split in two, the fissure opening more and more with each breath. The cut on his cheek, a gift from Shrike, stung when he swallowed or worked his jaw. Dried sweat, blood, and dirt caked his face, his suit. Unfamiliar stubble scratched at his skin. He was a mess. 

_Poisonous,_ his mind growled viciously. 

And really, it was true. Everything in his orbit was turning to rubble. The smell of ash and death clung to his hair, nearly gagging him. He hadn’t felt this weak, this _defeated_ since…

Since he sat beside his parents cracked and broken corpses, wailing with his hands covered in their blood. 

There was blood on his hands again, even if it was a different sort. Everyone that died, died because of _him_. His fault. _Poisonous_. Even Catalina could see that, and she was a _murderer_.

Maybe, by proxy, Dick was one too, now. 

He couldn’t _stop_ shivering. Whether from the frigid, damp air or the potent self-loathing he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t really matter. He grabbed a spare piece of filthy newspaper and pulled it up to his shoulders. A mockery of a blanket, but he chased the warmth of his breath against it until his body finally gave in to a restless sleep, just as the sun started to poke through the oppressive clouds. 

It was nearly nightfall before he jolted awake. An alley cat glared at him angrily, its squashed face dominating his vision. He heaved himself up into a sitting position carefully, giving the animal space when it hissed and spat at the sudden movement. Offended, it gracefully leapt down the fire escape and ran out of sight. There was humor in the situation - something about him stealing a cat’s perch - Dick was sure of that, but he couldn’t find it. Instead, he got to his feet, pulled up the top of his uniform, and took stock of his injuries - a task that should have been completed before he fell asleep. Careless. Reckless. _Poisonous_.

Separated ribs at least. A deep gash that still bled sluggishly, that he knew he should stitch. His torso was a mottled mess of bruises and cuts. Gingerly, he dug around in the bag Alfred had brought to the apartment memorial. _“A few odds and ends”_ , he had said. There were some clothes, some granola bars, and - blessedly - a host of first aid supplies. He set to work, flinching only a little as he rubbed disinfectant into the gashes littering his skin. Suturing was a mechanical process, and Dick buried dark thoughts. 

_This doesn’t matter. You don’t matter. You destroy everything you touch. Poisonous._

Indulging that line of thinking was a poison all its own. After all, the _job_ mattered. Stopping Blockbuster _mattered_. It was the only way to keep the people in his world - the people who _were_ his world - safe. Whatever happened after that…

He kept stitching. 

Then there was the matter of his suit. Nearly in tatters. He grabbed another suture kit and pulled the fabric taut, weaving the needle in and out carefully, like Alfred had taught him. Alfred… He had seen Alfred just days ago. Now _he_ was at risk too. _Poisoned_. Would Desmond take him, too? Or Bruce? How long would it be before _everyone_ he loved…

No. Stop thinking. Keep stitching. 

When at last he was done, he redressed himself carefully, making sure to be gentle with his injuries. The suit was damaged, his body was damaged, and his heart had been torn asunder. But he wasn’t helpless. Not yet. There was still time. He could atone for the losses of those at the circus, at his apartment, by stopping this madness _his_ way. The _right_ way. He just had to trap Roland. Implicate him in the destruction. Get a confession out of him, whatever it took. It was the least Dick could do. 

He looked out at the darkening sky and took a deep determined breath. He may be bruised and hurting, but he wasn’t broken. Not yet.

It was time to get to work.

**Author's Note:**

> There has always been (understandably) a great deal of focus on the events of Nightwing 93, where Catalina rapes Dick. And that is horrible and traumatic, but I also wanted to explore the events that lead up to that culmination. The horror and sadness that Dick survived before he was violated. Too often the cumulative traumas of that run are eclipsed by the sexual assault near the end. But trauma isn't a competition, and Dick's strength in pushing forward deserves at least a one-shot.


End file.
